They walked, fasting,
with the weight of home in their hearts,
with the call to prayer echoing in their veins,
with Sallah on their tongues—
but the road was long, and the sky did not open.

In the streets of Uromi,
where shadows lengthen with sorrow,
where silence is a grave,
the stones spoke, the wood wept,
the hands that once built now struck.

O mother,
tell the wind to carry my name,
tell the earth to remember my steps,
for they have erased me with their rage,
and the night does not sing for me.

Who mourns the nameless?
Who writes their story?
Only the wind, only the dust,
only the blood that stains the silence.

But blood is not water.
It does not dry.
It does not forget.
And it does not forgive.